The Sigil

Poetry — A father makes a sacrifice to protect his family and business from an all-consuming force. But will it be enough?

When I was a child, growing up just west of town,
My family owned a hardware store, the only one around.

One sweaty summer evening in a year I can't recall,
Something electrified the air and rippled through us all.

Every day at dusk a cloud of smoke would fill the street,
Bringing chaos and destruction, and we named that smoke the Bleak.

It tore and twisted up the town that we had known before,
And within a week or two the Bleak birthed something more.

It started as a church of sorts, but one without a name.
Their cultists spouted dogma that at first seemed to be tame:

"The vanguard of the voiceless, the protectors of the meek;
We raise our fists and banners advocating for the weak."

They marched all over main street with their chants throughout the day,
While my father whispered warnings bidding us to stay away:

"I've seen them practice violence; their peace is just a guise,
And all their hooded pastors peddle in abhorrent lies."

His convictions seemed so resolute, and his resolve so sure,
Which left me all the more surprised when one came to our door.